Dogs are always touchy. I have been chased for my very life too many times in my early days as a gentleman of the road. Although my species is adept at bullying the bully-boys, when we are young we are often not aware of our powers and may be intimidated. I am sorry to say that my forays with canines have left me with an understandable disdain for the breed. I will have to proceed delicately with the dogs, so as not to betray my natural dislike.
Luckily, the attraction—although I cannot see how a compound of animals not including any felines could possibly be termed an “attraction”—is not open for business yet.
I should have free run of the place.
I decide to hie up top to interview the noble equine first. I have never known a horse not to talk sense, and find it outrageous that such a mild and useful breed has been so badly misused by humans. Although I have been known to dream that I am the size and incisor-level of the awesome saber-tooth tiger so faint in my ancestry, I have never regretted being too small to ride or to bear or to drag burdens. It is one supreme advantage the domesticated branch of my species has.
The animals are kept, of course, in an outdoor park that I imagine evokes Graceland’s rolling acres.
I find Rising Sun, a handsome honey-blond stallion of the type called palomino, munching oats at an outdoor drive-up stand. I hop atop the feeding station. Poor critters are cursed with these big, square teeth and hence are condemned to chew leaves of grass until their enamel turns green. I do not understand how they can keep those huge bodies going without any good red meat in their diet.
“You are new,” the horse notes succinctly between mashing vegetation.
“But not green,” I add quickly, just in case he mistakes me for a hank of rye grass or something. With their eyes on the sides of their heads, sometimes horses cannot see every little thing clearly. Like me.
I explain my mission, during which Sun nods and munches judiciously.
At least I assume it is judiciously. Horses have that considering air about them, like trial judges. They may be contemplating deep matters, or they may simply be chewing every bite one hundred times, as advised by the health books.
I look around the meadow. “I can see dogs racing over yonder hill, but I find it hard to picture an anaconda in these happy fields.”
The horse stops chewing to regard me with a brown eye as velvety as whipped chocolate. Miss Temple may be a wimp for brown-eyed blonds, but not me. There are no brown-eyed cats, obviously another clear sign of superiority.
I decide I need to shave off a little erudition. ‘The snake,” I repeat pointedly.
Sun whinnies and shakes his head until his platinum blond mane shimmies. I am beginning to think that in the brain department, he would be similar to an actor found on Baywatch. This boyo is all muscle and sun-bleached locks. And health food.
But he snuffles out a sigh and resumes our fitful conversation. “If you meant the snake, why did you not say so? When you said ‘Anna Conda,’ I thought you were referring to an attendant I do not know.”
“I mean the snake.”
“I am not much afraid of that snake,” he boasts. “It is one of the biggest in the world.”
“But it is not poisonous. I can take care of it with my hooves. No, the kind of snake I avoid like a briar patch is the small, poisonous sort that could strike my hock before I knew it. This Anna Conda snake is too big to miss, and no danger to me.”
“You have any idea how it got out of this area into the pool?”
He shakes his glamour-boy mane again. You would think he was Fabio. “They kept the Conda under glass, in a special area with tropical vegetation. I assume the snake would have to wait for a keeper to come and free it.”
“But you know nothing about yesterday aftemoon, when it would have been released?”
“I was off for a canter with Domino.” He nods to the distant dark form of a horse, head bowed to the imported grasslands. “The tourists like to see us cavorting, you know.”
“There are no tourists yet.”
‘There will be.”
He retums to his feedbag.
That is the trouble with these ruminant animals; they think with their stomachs. And sometimes they have more than one.
So I hop down and go on the lookout for dogs.
This whole field setup reminds me of those cheap science fiction movies where the small set in front is supposed to fade into a painting at the back that is intended to depict the surrounding countryside. Only you can see the brushmarks even from the back row of the Lyceum.
I frankly do not find this bucolic scene thrilling, but I suppose Elfans who have or have not been to Graceland relish the country squire look of the place. I am rounding the corner of the small barn when I come face-to-face with a snub-nosed, bristle-ruffed, purple-tongued creature that resembles an unsanctioned union between a giant radiator brush, an Eskimo, and a wild pig.
A growl is the only clue that this sixty-pound critter is merely a dog.
“Get low!” a human voice shouts.
I do not need encouragement. I immediately dive behind a bale of hay.
Sure enough. A brown jumpsuit soon makes the scene.
“What are you growling at?” she asks the bristled pig who had been accosting me. “You know all the stock. Just pipe down and don’t scare the horses.”
The creature backs off and the lady animal tender moves on.
“I am glad the Jumpsuit warned me,” I say to all and sundry who remain around, which is Rising Sun, the head of the lovely Domino, who has now munched her way to the stable area, and, uh, this Brillo pad of pale hair which I discover is sitting right next to me. I have seen wads of hair bigger than this removed from washing machine lint traps.
But the wad tums to me and I spot a pair of beady black eyes amid the permanent wave.
“Nobody warned you, silly,” the lint trap says. `The keeper was calling the chow-chow off.”
Okay. I have heard of chow you can eat and ciao you can say “hello and good-bye” in Italian with, but I have never heard of a chow-chow you can call off-off.
Since the fuzzhead speaks with a funny French accent, I restrain myself, play the sophisticate, and merely reply, “Pardon,” with the accent on the second syllable.
“Getlo is the dog’s name,” fuzzhead says, “as mine is Honey.” With the accent on the second syllable, I might add.
“Getlo? What kind of name is that?”
“I agree. It is silly. But that was what Elvis called his chow dog in 1957 until it died in 1975, and that is what this edition must be called, as I am called Honey, after Priscilla’s poodle that Elvis gave her.”
I am relieved to know what species I am dealing with, I was having my doubts.
`Thank you for the clarification, Hon-eee.” (I make her name rhyme with “Paree,” with the accent on the second syllable so as to sound French.) “Why did you not say that the creature is merely a common chow dog? I am familiar with that breed, or at least their reputation for fierce guard work.” I do not mention that they also have a rep for going off half-cocked.
`These working dogs are so serious about their roles in life,” she adds with a blasé sigh. “I understand that my role is merely to decorate and entertain, hence do not have to throw my weight around like the savage Getlo.”
“You do not have much weight to throw around,” I note.
Any dame takes that as a compliment, and this one practically purrs. “I heard you nuzzling up to Rising Sun. Are you playing the detective?”
“I do not ‘play’ at anything,” I say in a growl.
“Oh, so serious. Do not bother asking those big chevaux anything. They are too high off the ground to know what is going on, particularly in regard to snakes.”
“Oh? So what do you know?”